by Sylvia Plath
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——
A sort of walking miracle， my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade，
My right foot
A paperweight，
My face a featureless， fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify？——
The nose， the eye pits， the full set of teeth？
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon， soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen， ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone，
Nevertheless， I am the same， identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying Is an art， like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place， the same face， the same brute Amused shout：
'A miracle！' That knocks me out.
There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars， there is a charge For the hearing of my heart It really goes.
And there is a charge， a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So， so， Herr Doktor.
So， Herr Enemy.
I am your opus，
I am your valuable，
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash， ash You poke and stir.
Flesh， bone， there is nothing there
A cake of soap，
A wedding ring，
A gold filling.
Herr God， Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it——
A sort of walking miracle， my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade，
My right foot
A paperweight，
My face a featureless， fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify？——
The nose， the eye pits， the full set of teeth？
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon， soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen， ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone，
Nevertheless， I am the same， identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying Is an art， like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place， the same face， the same brute Amused shout：
'A miracle！' That knocks me out.
There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars， there is a charge For the hearing of my heart It really goes.
And there is a charge， a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So， so， Herr Doktor.
So， Herr Enemy.
I am your opus，
I am your valuable，
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash， ash You poke and stir.
Flesh， bone， there is nothing there
A cake of soap，
A wedding ring，
A gold filling.
Herr God， Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air